Choosing to SEE - Mary Beth Chapman [14]
I was nineteen years old. I’d been consumed by the fun of planning the wedding, and now, in the wet zoo, reality hit. I realized that although I was in love with this man, now “real life” was starting, and all I had to look forward to was working hard to put my bouncy, blond husband through school.
He was confident that all would be well. I totally believed in him and knew he was great. I was his biggest cheerleader. But sometimes life felt scary and bleak. Sometimes my hopes for the future were thin and gray, barely holding, just like Eeyore’s tacked-on tail.
5
When the Puppy Eats
Your Birth Control Pills
God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.
William Cowper
We had fifty dollars in the bank, a green Ford Pinto, and we were livin’ on love.
We found a dingy, three-hundred-square-foot apartment in not the greatest part of town. The price was right, and I scoured the apartment with Clorox bleach until it was spotless.
Steven was a full-time student at Belmont University. He had auditioned for a college group called the Belmont Reasons. They told him he wasn’t good enough to be a vocalist, but they wanted him to play guitar. He also continued working on his writing and developing as an artist at Benson Records.
I got a job at what was then Westside Hospital. I was secretary to the comptroller. I loved reconciling numbers, admittances, and whatever else could be neatly added or subtracted and come out equal in our accounting records.
I was beginning to realize, more and more, that musicians are nothing like accountants. They are more . . . abstract. Two plus two doesn’t necessarily equal four, if you know what I mean. Musicians operate out of a place in the brain that I’m pretty sure I don’t have.
I was very organized and punctual. To me, “on time” meant you needed to be at least ten to fifteen minutes early. Steven thought that thirty minutes late was fashionable and acceptable . . . even for scheduled appointments. It made me crazy! He seemed to march to the beat of his own drum, and I was beginning to feel that the world was supposed to fall in line with that rhythm. I felt frustrated and angry at his carefree, Tigger attitude.
We both loved Jesus, and we both wanted a Christ-centered marriage. But I thought – in my twenty-year-old Eeyore maturity – that this sure wasn’t going to be easy, to die to myself and take up my cross and live with the most self-centered man on the entire planet!
I was working eight to five, and was in an efficient, regular routine. Steven was an artist accustomed to staying up late with bursts of creativity, which couldn’t be scheduled. We were working toward a common goal, but nobody could frustrate me like that man!
I couldn’t communicate the way Steven could. (Believe me, I still can’t!) He was frustrated and was trying to fix me. I didn’t think I needed fixing.
When we would fight, he’d quote Scripture at me (he would later admit that this was a huge mistake). So he’d say things about how we couldn’t let the sun go down on our anger, and I would say “Oh, yeah? Watch this!” And I’d lie down and fall instantly asleep.
After all, when I was growing up that was how we dealt with conflict. We avoided unpleasant conversations, and then in the morning it would be a new day and a fresh start. I would only realize later how much bitterness and resentment was building up inside of me.
One winter night, it was snowing outside and we’d gotten into an argument inside, no doubt about our calendar and our schedules. I was furious and just wanted out of my three-hundred-square-foot apartment. I got up, leaving Steven behind, and walked out the door.
“Where are you going?” he yelled.
“I am walking to Ohio!” I yelled.
Crying, I made my way down to the sidewalk, walking to Ohio. I felt something nearby, and there was Steven, driving slowly beside me . .